


Collected fragments

by dazebras



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Regency, Bachelor Auction, Charity Auctions, Disabled Character, F/F, M/M, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 02:19:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14415537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazebras/pseuds/dazebras
Summary: I wanted to post some of my unfinished (and largely abandoned) drafts.  I still enjoy the writing and what I made it through so far, but I've left the fandoms for the most part.  Maybe interest here will inspire me to continue?Chapter 1:  (Hannibal) Will buys Chilton at a charity bachelor auction, and they both hate every minute of itChapter 2: (Avengers) Pepper/Natasha Regency!AU





	1. Will Graham/Frederick Chilton Bachelor Auction

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this in August 2014 before season 3 aired.

It had been nine months, one week and three days since Hannibal had left him gutted on the kitchen floor.  Four months and five days since Will had given up looking for him.

Time had passed by, gray and lonely.  The company of most people had always made him itch with the way their eyes tried to burrow under his skin.  It was even worse now that he was more than just the FBI’s pet basket case. He’d had little contact with anyone from his life before that night when he watched his world leak from between his fingers.  The idea of trying to connect with someone peripheral to Hannibal’s manipulations, to have to _explain_ it, chafed at him.

He and Alana were the only ones to survive that night.

He hadn’t visited her in the hospital, hadn’t felt ready to face her after failing so utterly.  He was surprised when he saw her the waiting room after his physical therapy appointment to learn that they shared the same doctor’s office -- a product of  having the same health insurance. She could walk, she had told him, but would likely need her new wheelchair for the rest of her life. He had cupped his hand over his middle to steady the rising nausea and forced himself not to flinch when his fingers brushed the bandages still covering the jagged “L” carved into his stomach like a lover’s initial on a tree trunk.

A week later, Alana insisted that he make her dinner, and his shame wouldn’t let him tell her that cooking made him lose his appetite these days.

Shared meals became a frequent affair.  Alana couldn’t fill the gaping hole Hannibal had ripped in his life, but her company could distract him briefly.  It was easier to talk to her now that they had squashed the potential for something more than friendship. He had no idea what she got out of the relationship.

It was Alana who had asked him to attend the charity ball tonight.  Truth be told, he dreaded the possibility of mingling with strangers who would love nothing more than to make a public spectacle of him.  But Alana was concerned because he had barely left his house outside of visiting her and the initial doctor’s appointments since he was released from the hospital.  It had taken one look at the glint of the kitchen light on her chair for him to know that he couldn’t deny her anything.

So he let Alana pick out his tie -- green silk that would “bring out his eyes” -- without fuss.

“Thanks again for coming, Will,” she told him as he helped her out of her new van and into her chair.  She tucked her meticulously curled hair behind one ear. “I’m glad there will be at least one friendly face out there tonight.”

The other reason she’d dragged him out here.   

The gala was a charity auction put on by the local psychiatric society to benefit some organization trying to provide services to homeless youth.  Alana and the other members would be sold off for dates in exchange for sizeable donations. She had already lined Will’s pockets with enough cash to cover her starting bid if the chair managed to scare everyone else away.  She was still self-conscious about it, and Will refused to let her be humiliated.

It was an unnecessary precaution.  One look at Alana in her gorgeous black off-the-shoulder dress and shiny silver pumps had the men falling over themselves to outbid each other.  A year ago, he would have been jealous of them. Now, he allowed himself a soft smile when Alana looked pleased with her champion as he escorted her off the small stage.  She deserved someone normal in her life.

The crowd hooted when the next man came up onstage and a middle aged woman, undoubtedly his wife, and a pretty young blonde fought over his date. Will drained his glass of champagne and went in search of another, promising himself that he’d take this one more slowly. He wished he could leave or at least that Alana could have kept him company, but she was expected to be with her winning date.  He was grateful that the auction distracted his table-mates from trying to draw him into conversation.

It was the name that caught his attention.

Frederick Chilton. 

Will hadn’t seen him since Jack had marched him out of the woods and hauled him off to Quantico. He’d heard that the doctor had woken from his coma some five months ago and had resumed his job shortly after, against the advisement of his board of directors. The only difference Will could see from this far away was that he had developed a new habit of ducking his chin to the side to hide his scar from direct view.

Will’s neighbor chuckled as the announcer rattled off Chilton’s bio.  “That failure honestly expects someone to bid on him?”

His wife sneered in agreement. “He was a laughingstock long before Gideon ripped out his guts.  He would have been better off retiring after that embarrassment, but instead he went and got himself shot.  I’m surprised he bothered to show his face around here.”

The rest of their table sniggered at her assessment, and Will bit his tongue around false protest.  She was right to a degree. But as he watched Chilton fiddle with his cane in obvious discomfort, Will felt something in him twist in sympathy.  

When he was a child, he’d once run barefoot through a field.  It was night; they were playing flashlight tag. He was It, but he kept the light off to sneak up on his friend.  He’d felt something slimy squish beneath his bare foot. When he shined his light on his sole, he'd seen the mangled remains of a slug.  The sight filled him simultaneously with sadness and disgust.

His hand was in the air before he could register it.

Chilton’s eyes snapped to his, and Will could see his lip twitch indignantly.  The auctioneer called _once_ , _twice_ , and Chilton was _sold_ to Will.  No one else bid.  Will hurried down the aisle to pay the clerk, feeling the stares burn holes in his back.

“I didn’t need you to rescue me,” Chilton hissed.

He was there, right over Will’s shoulder, close enough to set off alarm bells ringing in his head _wrongwrongwrong._  Will resisted the urge to step away and shoved the money at the clerk.  Five hundred dollars of Alana’s money. He’d have to pay her back.

“Would you have rather I had left you up there?”  He led Chilton to the hallway near the restrooms, taking a small amount of joy that he had to jog-limp to keep up.  If he was going to have this confrontation, it wasn’t going to be in full view of everyone.

“What are you even doing here?”

“I came with Alana.”

“Ah, Dr. Bloom.  Yes, I saw her backstage.  She didn’t mention you.” Alana and Chilton’s reunion couldn’t have been more pleasant than theirs.  Will didn’t answer and let Chilton squirm in his silence. Finally, he sighed, “What do you want, Will?”

“You’re getting awfully familiar, _Frederick_. What happened to ‘Mr. Graham?’”

Chilton glared at him, gripping the handle of his cane as though he’d very much like to strike Will with it.  “That went out the window when you handed me over the FBI to get shot.”

After it had happened, Will had told himself that he would apologize, explain himself, if he ever saw the man again.  But now, with Chilton still standing too close for comfort and forcing the blame for Hannibal's actions on him -- as if he hadn't done that to himself time and time again, as if he didn't wake up with his hand wet from dog slobber and think it was Abigail's blood -- he couldn't give him that.

"You should leave."

"Excuse me?"

"Unless you enjoy hearing people whisper about how much of a disgrace you are behind your back, you should go home." The pained look that flickered across Chilton's face made Will grimace.  He forced himself to be less mean, and the best he could come up with was pity. "I have to stay until Alana is ready to leave. You should avoid it."

Will could tell Chilton could see straight through him, could tell that really he just didn't want Chilton to sit with him like all the other couples, drawing even more attention to him. It didn't matter, he told himself.  He left Chilton there, returned to his seat on the edge of the crowd, and waited for Alana to come collect him as the party started winding down.

"What was that?"  Alana eyed him expectantly.

Will sighed and pushed her toward the exit so he didn't have to look at her.  "I don't know. I just couldn't let him stand up there."

Alana made a hum of understanding.  "So what are you doing for your date?"

Will rolled his eyes since he knew she couldn't see it.  "We're not going on a date."

"You should take the opportunity to spend time with people who aren't me.  It doesn't have to be a _date_ date."

"What about yours?  Is it a _date_ date?"  She let him change the subject, happy to chatter about her dashing new beau.  He half-listened as he drove her home, lost in his own thoughts. He didn’t want to spend time with someone who wasn’t Alana.  Even if he wanted to date, he certainly wasn’t interested in Frederick Chilton.

 

* * *

 

_I'm free on Friday night._

Will didn't recognize the number on the text, but the area code was a Boston one.

 _I think you have the wrong number_ , he wrote back.

The reply was quick in coming.   _No.  I don't.  I got your number from Dr. Bloom_.

Frederick, then. The idea that Alana was handing out his cell number rankled at him. There was a limit to how much well-meaning nosiness he was willing to tolerate. And now she was circumventing him after he already told her he wasn't interested in seeing Frederick.

_I'm guessing she asked you to get me out of the house._

_Actually, I asked her for it._  Briefly, Will considered the idea that Frederick actually wanted to spend time with him -- whether to hang out or chew him out, he wasn't sure -- before the text alert chimed again. _The charity requests that each of the couples provide photos of their outing for publicity purposes._

Of course Frederick would want to be in the publicity packet, which would likely be published in the psychiatric society quarterly magazine.  Well, Will wasn't going to make it that easy for him. Especially when his texting style oozed as much arrogance as the rest of him. He'd expected the events of last year to have knocked him down a peg, but the man seemed as insufferable as ever.

_So you expect me to take you out on Friday night?_

_You purchased my time.  It's your responsibility to provide for the date._

Which meant he was going to make Will pay for it too.  Fine. If that was how he wanted to play, that was how it would be.  Will let himself slip into the familiar feeling of tormenting Frederick Chilton, reminding himself that it wasn't dangerous this time.  There was no need to treat Frederick as a pawn in a cosmic game of chess. He could simply relish in toying harmlessly with him just a little, and if socializing more got Alana to leave him be, it was a win either way.

Will shot a conspiratory grin at the pack of dogs huddled around his feet.  "I know just where to take him."

_I'll pick you up at 7 on Fri._

 

* * *

 

It took nearly five minutes after Will rang the doorbell for Frederick to finally answer.  The man's neat blue dress shirt, prim black slacks, and shiny dress shoes made Will chuckle.  Internally. If this had been a real date, Will would have felt out of place in second nicest pair of jeans -- the ones that didn't do anything special for his figure but didn't have any paint or rips either -- and flannel shirt. But it wasn't a real date.

"I hope you weren't expecting any place too fancy.  Not on my dime anyway."

Frederick's pinched expression told him he had been hoping for exactly that.  "Of course not. I know the Academy doesn't pay well."

Will could never tell if the man was intentionally insensitive or if he genuinely didn't know how to stop when he was ahead.  He was reluctant to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Let's go."

Will very much did not open the door for Frederick, even though the passenger door had been sticking recently.  He hid his amusement behind a cough as he watched Frederick struggle to open it and juggle his ridiculous cane.

The ride was awkward.  Will had no idea how to begin a conversation.  He should clear the air between them, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize for ratting Frederick out to Jack after their last conversation.  Mentioning Hannibal would ruin tonight; it ruined every night.

Frederick was equally quite until they parked.  Will shut off the car, unbuckled, and looked over to see Frederick gaping up at the colorful neon lights hanging over the entrance.

"A bowling alley?" He was every bit as astounded as Will had hoped he would be.  "You brought me to a _bowling alley_?"

"Is there a problem with it?" Will taunted.  "We can put the bumpers up if you need them."

Frederick scoffed.  "I'd rather not. I thought we were going to dinner."

"They serve pizza and hot dogs here."  Will climbed out of the car and walked toward the entrance, forcing Frederick to either sit and sulk or follow him in order to continue complaining.

It didn't take long for the latter to win out.  

"Do you have any idea how germ-ridden these places are?" Frederick said as he caught up. "And I’m sure their food is revolting."

"I didn't peg you for a germophobe."

"I'm not. I just don't like going to places that are known health hazards."

Will paused just outside the door and looked back at him.  "You don't have to come. This evening was your idea."

"You drove," Frederick said pointedly.

"I did."  Another part of Will's plan to make Frederick's evening as unpleasant as possible.  He could either come inside until Will was ready to leave, or he could call a cab.

Frederick eyed him warily.  Then, he tapped his cane once, twice as though coming to a decision and shoved past Will to open the door.  "What are you waiting for?" he tossed over his shoulder.

They were met with a wave of sound, the noise of screaming children an undertow beneath the sea of crashing pins that threatened to drag their rationality away.  The smell was equally unsettling -- a mixture of feet, floor wax, and cheap buttered popcorn. The Eighties rock ballads and flashing lights didn't help much either.

This may have been worse than Will had bargained for.

The teenager manning the shoe rental counter and the register looked bored.  Will supposed he had become desensitized to the chaos after prolonged exposure.  "How many games?" he asked in a monotone.

"Just one." Will didn't know if he could stand to be in this hellhole for longer than that, even if it meant letting Frederick off easy.  "We'll need to rent shoes."

The clerk let out a put-upon sigh.  "What size?"

"Nine -- Twelve," they answered at the same time.

Will cocked an eyebrow at Frederick, who looked momentarily embarrassed.  

"I have large feet," he explained.

Will was saved from having to respond by the clerk dropping two pairs of horrendous DayGlo orange and yellow shoes on the counter.  Frederick picked up his by the laces and held them as far away from him as possible. This put them with range of Will's nose, making him shy away from the revolting stench of aged foot sweat barely masked by a too thin coating of antiseptic.

"It's a lucky thing I wore socks this evening, or you'd be buying me a pair out of the vending machine."

Will let Frederick lead the way to their lane where they switched shoes.  Will had to go back to the counter to exchange his when they were too small.  He should have remembered that he always had to ask for a different size than usual.  Frederick filled out the electronic scoreboard while Will fetched them bowling balls. He picked out a highlighter pink one for Frederick, who inspected it with distaste.

"It was the only one I could find in that size," Will lied.

They decided to eat before starting their game.  Both took one look at the corn dogs in the case before deciding that the pizza looked like a safer bet.  That at least appeared warm.

"You know," Frederick said as he dabbed at the grease congealing on the pizza, "I haven't been bowling in more than a decade."

"I haven't either.  I think the last time came to a place like this was just before I graduated from George Mason."

"What?  No FBI bowling league?"

"Not any that I was invited to."

"Ah, yes.  You weren't exactly a favorite among your co-workers from what I heard."

"Neither are you."  

A unreadable expression passed briefly across his face as Frederick stared at him for a moment before swallowing his bite of pizza thickly.  "I suppose not."

They ate in silence after that.  Will's retort seemed to have used up the last of Frederick's good will for the evening.  His mediocre bowling skills didn't improve his mood any either. Not that Will's score was much higher, but he at least was able throw the ball without looking like he was going to topple over every time.

It was Frederick's turn on the last frame.  He left his cane at the computer seat as he had been doing all night.  Will had thought initially that it was just for show, but Frederick tenderly approached the edge of the alley each time instead of the three-step pace of most bowlers.


	2. Pepper/Natasha Regency!AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written for lovehoneybee sometime in 2015. I had recently read Wurthering heights, so who knows where I was going with this.

I met her in the summer of my seventeenth year. The heath was still yet green; though, fall swiftly approached. How fitting that I should first see her against a backdrop of green hills and gay posies when her hair was alight like glowing fire!

We were introduced at a cricket game of Mr. Coulson’s, a curious fellow who fancied himself to be something of a matchmaker among the young people of the county. Oh, he was more than willing to leave the scheming to mothers and aunts, but if ever one needed to contrive an opportunity for an introduction, he was perfectly accommodating. 

Natasha was the guest of Mr. Clinton Barton, with whose family she was fostering during her time abroad. His father had met hers during some trade voyage to St. Petersburg years previous, and he was pleased to lend his old acquaintance’s daughter residence as she improved her education. 

Though the rest of the women thought it would be amusing to make a play of competing against our male companions, she and I spent the afternoon under the shade of a nearby elm -- she because she did not understand the game, and I since, being a good head taller than is fashionable for a young woman, my mother had warned me against doing anything which might be perceived as indelicate in the presence of marriageable young men. We both agreed at length that this was preferable to running around in the heat, especially since the sun did not do favor to our fair complexions. 

After more than an hour of listening to me explain the finer points of the game and commentate on how well one team did over the other, Natasha set aside her lemonade and said plainly to me, “I do believe you are the first person I have met in England who did not tease me for my ignorance nor for my uncommon manner of speaking.”

“I cannot believe that a family such as the Barton's would treat a guest so harshly,” I protested. “To imply so demonstrates an ungrateful character.”

“I confess you are right that the Barton's have been nothing but kind to me. Yet the foreignness of my accent and behavior still provides a great amusement to them, particularly to Barton; though, he hides it well.”

Ashamed that I had thought her to speak greater ill of her hosts than she had, I sought her forgiveness. 

“Nonsense. I know not the intricacies of half of what I say. I only meant to tell you that I have enjoyed your company.”

“And I, yours. Truly, I hope that we may be fast friends,” I said, capturing her hand and pressing it between my own. 

She looked surprised for a moment then smiled prettily. “Yes, I should like that very much, Miss Potts.”

 

* * *

 

The season passed with the speed that all summers do. I saw Natasha but once in a while while I was out riding. I invited her to tea, but Lady Barton expected her home to dine, and I did not have a chance to renew the invitation. 

It neared the end of August before the card for the St. Michaelmas ball hosted by Mr. and Mrs. Banner. As the first such party of the cold months, it promised to be quite diverting. And assuredly the Bartons, the most respectable family in town, would be invited. I anticipated seeing Natasha again nearly as much as I did the opportunity to dance. 

After greeting our hostess, I made it my first priority to locate my friend. I spotted her from across the room. She wore a comely dress in heliotrope, which must have been newly made in London, for it was styled in the height of fashion. I envied her more for her ability to wear bold hues than the cut of her gown. I can wear no brighter than the celadon down I donned that evening lest it clash with my pale ginger hair. 

I approached her at once and commended myself to Lady and Mr. Barton. Upon seeing my acquaintance with Natasha, Lady Barton invited me to keep company with them as my parents mingled with the rest of county society. She entertained me with witty commentary on the other guests’ clothes -- particularly the gaudiness of Mr. Hammer’s watch fob -- while Natasha danced her two turns with Mr. Barton. 

After Natasha returned, Lady Barton slipped off, presumably to harass Mr. Fury about the state of the parish roads. The pair of us observed to following minuet together. 

When the next dance, a cotillard, began and no gentlemen requested Natasha to join them, I turned to her, “It is beyond belief that you should not have a wealth of partners with how handsome you look tonight.”

“It is because they suppose that Mr. Barton and I have an understanding and do not wish to intrude.”

“And do you and Mr. Barton have an understanding? Please, Miss Romanoff, as we are friends, do tell me truly.”

“No we do not. I believe that he fancied a woman he met in London last season, Miss Morse. Though I think she may have recently been engaged to somebody else.”

“Why, then you have the perfect opportunity to secure a match for yourself if he is not otherwise attached. After all, you live with him and must have plenty of chances to demonstrate the sort of wife you would make.”

“And why should I want to do that?”

“He is the son of a baron and has an income of £1,000.”

She laughed undaintily. “He is only the younger son. And as for his £1,000, I am worth thrice that and have no wish to marry someone who desires another.”

“The elder Mr. Barton, then? What of him?”

“I have yet to meet the man. He has reportedly spent the last twelve month bawding about Brighton with a disreputable crew of jackanapes.”

“Oh, do hush, Miss Romanoff! The Bartons would not want you to spread such a scandalous rumor to every guest here! Still, if what you say is true,  he is too much a knave to make a smart match, no matter how much his inheritance.”

She obediently quieted and smiled at my assessment. 

**Author's Note:**

> I vaguely remember were I was going with the story in the immediacy but not long term.


End file.
